David Feintuch
David Feintuch has been a photographer, antiques dealer,
and attorney. He lives in a Victorian mansion in Michigan.
Other titles in the Seafort Saga include Midshipman's Hope,
Challenger's Hope, Prisoner's Hope, Fisherman's Hope, and
Voices of Hope. The Still is a stand-alone title. He has received the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer.

I snapped my attention back to our conference. "Very well,
we'll see." I slid his folder into the "undecided" pile.
Though a puter screen was inset into the table in front of
each seat, the Navy cherished its traditions. One of them
was using old-style paper folders for cadet candidate
files.

The purpose of my Academy jaunt was twofold. First, Devon
was one of the few places outside my own walled home in
which I was free of the ubiquitous mediamen. The Academy
grounds were closed, and woe betide the heli that overflew
it.

My other motive was more complex. Once, as Academy
Commandant, I'd selected a few cadets as special aides. It
hadn't worked out; I'd gotten them massacred in one of my
senseless follies. Yet my successors, blind to my
misconduct, continued the tradition.

Years later, when I returned to public life as a Senator,
then as SecGen, I'd tired of the self-serving blather of my
politically astute assistants, and sought out younger
adjutants. I'd coopted midshipmen fresh out of Academy, and
to my dismay, watched them grow into political creatures as
unacceptable as those they replaced.

The solution I'd devised was to select them at Academy,
before they became middies, thenwith an occasional
exceptionsend them to a year or two aboard ship.
Thereafter, when they were offered a shoreside posting at
the U.N. Rotunda, I had at least a hope they'd remember
their traditions and the discipline of Naval life. Most of
them did, as long as I didn't keep them too long. My
current aide, Charlie Witrek, was a willing joey, one I'd
come to like, but in a week he would be rotated back aloft,
and we'd bring down some middy I'd chosen in previous
years.

The system worked well, overall. Of course, none of the
selectees must have any idea he'd been chosen to ripen in
the fleet, else he wouldn't take his shipside duties
seriously. For that I needed the cooperation of Academy's
staff, and of course I had it. They too wanted their
minions to mature as young midshipmen, and if that weren't
enough, none cared to risk a SecGen's enmity.

Still, I found the selection process uncomfortably
reminiscent of Final Cull, the miserable job of choosing
who, among the myriad of applicants, was to attend Academy.
One of my great pleasures as SecGen had been to return to
the Navy the long-sought privilege of selecting its own
officer candidates.

Today, for two hours, Hazen, Arlene, and I reviewed files
with the staff sergeants, noting which youngsters showed
promise.

Over the years Arlene and I had developed a fine working
relationship. By my authority, she sat in on many of the
conferences I was required to endure. Here, at Academy, her
views were particularly valuable; we'd been cadets together
and shared a knowledge and love of the Navy.

I opened another folder. "What about"

The door flew open. "Commandant!" A sergeant, his breath
coming hard. A red-haired midshipman was close behind.

I grimaced, recalling cadet days. First, Sarge had taught
us how to suit up. We'd endured his drills several days in
a row, skylarking when his eye wasn't on us. Then, one day,
after suiting, Sarge sent us one by one into a foggy room
with an airlock at each end. About half of us, when we
emerged, turned green. The other half had known how to seal
their suits properly.

The five cadets who'd gotten a whiff of the gas would
suffer no more than a day's sore stomach and the indignity
of losing their lunch. A tough lesson, but far more gentle
than that of unforgiving space.

"Sir, two are dead. The rest . . . the medics are working
on them, but"

"Oh, Lord God." My voice was strained.

The Commandant blinked. "Impossible! How? What . . ."

"I don't know!" Gregori sounded near tears.

I scrambled to my feet, lurched to the door.

"Nick, wait." Arlene.

I paid her no heed. Leaning heavily on my cane, I strode
through the admin wing, outside to the late-afternoon sun,
along the walkway toward the classrooms, the dorms, the
suiting chamber halfway across the base.

By interfering, I was muscling in on Hazen's prerogatives,
but anxiety drove me onward. Cadets didn't die in suiting
practice. Not at Devon. Farside was another matter; there
was no appeal from the laws of vacuum. If some of our
charges were deadI took a deep breathAcademy
faced a scandal. Someone had been unforgivably negligent.
And the Commandant would write letters this night, that
would ravage families' lives.

By the time I neared the classroom area, all had caught up
with me: the staff sergeants who'd joined our conference,
the Commandant, Arlene, the agonized Sergeant Gregori, the
middy who'd burst in with him.

Hazen panted to Gregori, "Full report!"

"Aye aye, sir. I took Krane Barracks to the suiting room at
seventeen hundred hours. Later than usual, but we were
keeping them out of the sun." The sergeant paused for
breath. "Twenty-nine cadets; Cadet Robbins was confined to
barracks. I had them help each other suit up. Same as
always, sir."

"Get on with it!"

I opened my mouth for a rebuke, but held my peace. Hazen
was in charge, not I.

"Then I sent them through. Midshipman Anselm, here, was
helping. A canister of the emetic was already in place;
Sergeant Booker used the chamber this morning. The first
four cadets went through without incident."

Where in God's own Hell was the suiting chamber? I'd never
remembered it as so distant.

Gregori slowed his pace, to match mine. "Cadet Santini
doubled over as she came out the lock. I helped with her
helmet and gave her a piece of my mind, but my eye was on
the cadets going through the room." Abruptly he came to a
halt, his gaze withdrawn to a private hell.

"I told you to report!" Hazen.

"Belay that!" My voice was a lash. Protocol be damned. I
was Commander in Chief, and could do as I pleased. I limped
to Gregori. "Are you all right, Sergeant?" He was
responsible for the cadets' safety. Lord God knew what he
must be feeling.

"Sir . . ." His eyes beseeched mine. "Other cadets were
falling ill. It's not their fault, they're young, they
don't know to double-check the seals. I was trying to watch
them all, and Santini had her helmet off. I knew she'd be
all right. Except . . ." He shuddered. "When I looked down
she was in convulsions. There was nothing I could do.
Nothing!" His voice broke.

Awkwardly, I let my hand brush his shoulder.

He began to walk again, this time more slowly. "In the
chamber, Ford pitched flat on his face. Then Eiken went
down. I realized something was terribly wrong and yelled at
Anselm to purge the room, but he didn't hear me, or didn't
understand."

The middy stirred.

I raised a hand. "In a moment, Mr., ah, Anselm. Go on,
Sarge."

"By the time I ran round to the other door and triggered
the emergency oxygen flush, two more were down. I ordered
Anselm to pull them outhe was suited, I
wasn'tand ran back to Santini. She was staring at the
sky." Gregori's mouth worked. "By the time we got the
others out, three more were dying. I called sickbay, and
rang for Lieutenant LeBow."

At last, the suiting chamber, a low, windowless, gunmetal
gray building behind the nav training center. I recalled
the suit room, with its rows of lockers where the cadets
would enter. The airlock to the main chamber, the waiting
lock at the far exit.

"Lieutenant LeBow told me to report to you, flank." And the
sergeant would, of course. In the Navy, orders were obeyed.

My knee ached abominably. I bit back a foul imprecation as
we neared the dazed cadets. Some were weeping. A few
slumped on the grass. Among them were five motionless forms
in gray. Three med techs worked over them, from scramble
carts. A lieutenant watched, arms folded.

A cadet corporal saw us coming. "Attention!" His voice was
ragged.

"As you were," I rasped. Then I had a glimpse of one of the
casualties. "Oh, Lord." Blood had flowed, from her mouth
and eyes. "You, there, any survivors?"

The med tech looked up, his eyes grim. He shook his head.

"What caused it?"

"I don't know." Wearily, he knelt on the grass. "We
couldn't have been three minutes responding to the call.
They were gone. We never had a chance."

I turned. "Sergeant M'bovo, escort the squad to barracks."
The sooner the joeykids were removed from the sight, the
better.

"Let me take them, sir. They're mine." Gregori.

"No, I want you here." If it was Gregori's blunder that had
killed his cadets, he should be kept far from them. "Stay
with them, Sergeant M'bovo. See that they're on light duty
for three days."

"Aye aye, sir." There was little else he could say, to a
direct order. Civilian I might be, and outside the chain of
command, but I was SecGen. "You joeys, back to barracks.
Double-time!"

When the cadets were out of earshot Hazen grated, "I'd have
laid on extra drills, to keep them occupied."

So might I, in my younger days. "Let them grieve." I turned
to the redheaded middy. "Let's hear your version." My wife
flinched, and too late, I realized it sounded an
accusation.

Anselm stammered out his story, but it corroborated the
sergeant's in all details.

"Don't touch that!" I lowered my voice to a normal tone.
"Commandant, have the gas analyzed. A party of three to
take the canister to the lab. Send LeBow, there. And two
sergeants who had nothing to do with the incident. Get
these poor children's bodies to sickbay, we can't have them
lying here. Well, what are you staring at? Get moving,
flank!"

"Aye aye, sir." As if dazed, Hazen reached for his caller.
Gregori said nothing, but his eyes bore mute reproach.

"And autopsies on the cadets. Tonight." I tried to think
what else. "Seal the base." If rumors got out, we'd be
besieged with mediamen, to the Navy's detriment. All
mediamen were ghouls. "Gregori, Anselm, wait for us at the
Commandant's office."